Page 20 of The Music of Us
Jake’s eyes landed on my pale-yellow blouse. “Tweety Bird.”
Touché.
Glancing pointedly at the medieval-esque banquet table, I asked, “You expecting company?”
“Just your lovely self. Sit.”
“I’m not a guest here.”
Jake shrugged. “I’m staying in a suite, which is supposed to be for...” Jake reached into his pocket, unfolded a paper pamphlet, and glanced down at it. “Three to five people. So I think an extra piece of bacon or two’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”
I sent him a judgmental look as he re-pocketed the pamphlet and refocused his attention on spreading an obscene amount of apricot jelly on a scone. “You’re staying in a suite?”
“I didn’t want to,” Jake replied, wolfing down the scone inan impressive two bites and reaching for the cereal. “All the regular motel rooms were already taken. It’s convention season or something and there’s a whole bunch of stuffy businessmen here.”
Jake glanced up at my face, then rolled his eyes.
Unceremoniously, he stretched his leg under the table and pushed out the chair opposite him with his boot. His gaze dropped to the seat in invitation. “Come on, Luciana. Don’t just stand there. Chill. Eat a Pop-Tart or something. You probably rushed over here without bothering to stop for breakfast.”
How had he known that?
I refused to let the surprise show on my face. Just because Jake somehow guessed what I did that morning didn’t mean he knew me anymore.
“Lucky guess,” I said.
“I’m a lucky guy,” he replied flatly.
My brow ticked up. So, this was the new Jake Moody: Unreasonably cool. Unbearably hot.
Unfortunately aggravating.
I wasn’t sure this was someone I wanted to have breakfast with. Still, it’d be a waste of free food if I said no.
Taking a seat, I grabbed a plate and a mini quiche.
“Nice boots, by the way,” I said begrudgingly, my inner fashion critic unable to resist commenting on the shoes I’d seen when he kicked the chair out. “Doc Martens?”
Jake paused, spoonful of cereal halfway to his mouth.
“I don’t know?” he replied, scrunching up his nose. It should’ve been a statement, but the way his voice went up at the end and his slightly perplexed look made it sound more like a question. “My stylist normally buys all my clothes.”
I raised an eyebrow and plucked a strawberry out of a bowl. So much for the rebellious, cool-guy image. “The great big bad boy has a fashion expert pick out his outfits for him?”
“It’s to keep me on brand for the band’s image. The label doesn’t trust me after I used my first paycheck to buy Luccheses.”
What were those? Why wouldn’t the label like them? I ran through the mental catalog of brand names I’d seen in upscale second-hand stores. Louboutin. Louis Vuitton. Louis Philippe. Lu— “Wait, are you talking about those fancy cowboy boots?”
Jake gave me an innocent expression, which didn’t exactly work with the whole outfit he had on.
“That fits.” I shook my head, looking down at my plate and hoping it hid my smile. “I tend to think of Somerset as your hometown like it is mine. But that’s wrong, though. You’re from Texas.”
Another thought crossed my mind, making me study him for a second as he dumped another helping of brightly colored cereal into his bowl.
Jake noticed me watching.
“What?” he asked, stubbornly giving the cereal box another firm shake and dumping more out, as if daring me to say something. But I wasn’t about to comment on his neon breakfast.
“Nothing, it’s just—” I laughed under my breath, not quite believing the question about to leave my mouth. “What happened to your accent?”
